Whistle-blowers (a Wikileaks fanfic)
by SnowAssMan
Summary: Whistle-blowers is a romantic, erotic & tragic, international melodrama about Edward Snowden, Chelsea Manning, Julian Assange & anyone else connected to WikiLeaks, whether whistleblowers, journalists or lawyers.
1. Chapter 1

The Most Galvanising Photo of 2019

"Edward!" a whisper screamed out of the doorway of the dark sitting-room. Edward Snowden was sitting on the settee, which would be facing a TV if they had had one. TV sets being the notorious wire-housing devices that they are, were not a luxury the United Corporations of America's most wanted could afford. In the TV's stead, sat a Macbook, in front of Edward, on a small table. It was the only source of light in the room, save Moscow's moonlight.

The voice belonged to Suzie Dawson, an Australian WikiLeaks' contributer & fellow exile.

"They got him. The Metropolitan police dragged him out of the Ecuadorian embassy. They got him, Edward. They've arrested Julian Assange."

Edward did not stir. He sat there, still absorbed with the developments revealed on his screen & brought to life with words from the darkness on the other side of the room.

A deafening silence followed. Suzie stood, rooted to the spot, waiting for who knows what, just waiting. Hearing her own words were just as sobering & paralysing to her as they were to the other occupant in the room.

"I don't believe it" The silence had been broken by Edward in a quiet voice that echoed off the walls of the minimalist space. His voice was always quiet, & it always echoed. Like a refrain he repeated the same words with the same indignation, yet with lessened incredulity each time: "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."

Suzie finally left her spot in the doorframe to join Edward on the settee. She studied him in a manner that one does in emotional situations, in that familiar way that people do when they show their emotional support & attention to another distraught party. But it was more than that. She was using this socially-sanctioned opportunity, as she had done often in the past years since she first met him, only days after arriving in Moscow, to caress his fine features with her gaze. He always wore that forlorn, melancholy expression; this time mixed with more concentration & a less oneiric quality than usual. His large, dark, friendly eyes, his modest fringe – he was a very aesthetically pleasing man, though she would not admit, even to herself, that she was falling for him. She just appreciated him from a distance. In the last years, that distance had been shrinking, drawing them closer to one another. At this moment they were closely flanking one another, his eyes still fixed on the screen, hers still regarding him. His hands were tightly clasped together, he drew them up, resting his thumbnails on his bottom lip. He exhaled; the air slowly straining out of his lungs, through his nostrils, that lacked any of the conventional ease that characterises a common sigh. It would not, in that moment, have felt wrong to wrap a supporting arm around him, or for him to lean into her, except for the fact that it would be quite the jump in physical intimacy that had yet to be crossed between them.

"The man saved my life. I wish there was a way for me to repay the debt."

"Speaking of paying debts, the IMF pardoned 4 billion dollars worth of Ecuador's debt. Ola Bini has been arrested in Ecuador too, though I assume Julian's bounty would be the greater share of the 4 billion. In this sick, capitalist circus that we live in, Assange is the premium product while Bini is sitting in the reduced bin." She knew it was macabre of her to say, but that had become the tone, living, as they did, away from everyone & everything they held dear, for as long as they had.

"The Ecuadorian people have been protesting ever since, yet mainstream outlets don't covered it."

"The protests are on a global level. But now that the UK has their mittens on Julian Assange, every 3-letter agency is going to be interrogating the crap out of him."

"4 billion dollars… What wouldn't someone be willing to do for that amount? If Julian is worth over 4 billion, what would you estimate the price on my head to be?"

He turned to her, bringing their faces unexpectedly close. She did not flinch away, or move back in a less awkward way than a flinch would have afforded. She stayed exactly the same distance that had felt a congenial one only moments earlier, but now racked her nerves with teenage-like angst.

She chose to play it cool, not letting her body betray her. So after a moment of considering his rhetorical question, Suzie responded with a glib: "A handsome ransom". She dared not break eye-contact, as that would colour her words with more flirtatious undertones than she had wished for. However, her body, screaming for a visible outlet of the feelings bubbling to the surface within her, fuelled by the prolonged eye-contact Edward unceasingly maintained, relieved some of the pressure against her will – she swallowed. Close proximity alone is a key to becoming privy to another's feelings, but at this moment she was an open book & she knew it. The light from his screen shone on them like a spotlight, the darkness around them obscured the rest of the world. There was nothing else, just the two of them, just this moment. Then the screen went dark, the device had gone into sleep-mode. The book was closed. He broke off the eye-contact, withdrawing once more into a world of his own. Emptiness.

It felt as though the walls were closing in, now more than ever. It was almost on a daily basis that some military-action by the coalition governments, Israel or NATO were taking place, closer & closer to the Russian border. All it took was a regime change in Ecuador to get Julian's refugee status revoked. Russia was becoming more & more open to corporate corruption & cultural imperialism. How long would it be before the government succumbed altogether, either externally via an invasion, or internally via a coup attempt? The only thing that alleviated the stress of this claustrophobic existence was the company. At least they had one another. The fear they shared melted away when in the presence of one another.

In the coming days, hope had crept by inches into their hearts. At first it could not be explained by either of them, but eventually they recognised it was down to a single image: a photograph taken on the day of Julian's arrest. The image depicted Julian's optimistic, winking face in the back of a MET Police van. It was an image of Che Guevaran-proportions, that inspired a new hope, a new belief in the living legend that is Julian Assange. The image, now in poster form, soon adorned the otherwise barren walls of their flat, acting as a constant reminder of their very pressing & impossibly-ambitious quest: to free Julian Assange, free Chelsea Manning & bring them home; the only viable home for outlaws & hindsight's heroes: The Mother Russia of Exiles.


	2. Chapter 2

The Solitude Before the Tempest Toss

In a concrete dungeon of four, hard, scream-proof walls, cut off from the world, & alone, lied a tortured & broken soul, on an equally hard surface – though it felt harder. A nightmare made reality. The aching body & weary mind belonged to Chelsea Manning, while the boiling blood & the fighting spirit belonged to us all.

She awoke from a restless sleep, finding herself in the same position she had been in, when she first closed her eyes. Her body had naturally fallen into the recovery-position shortly after being, almost literally, thrown into her cell. The narrow surface of her bed only barely accommodated her slender form. Chelsea's way of coping with being shut-in for 22 hours a day was to sleep. Unfortunately, in a room that knew no change in light or sound, it was hard to keep abreast of time at the best of times, but when frequent napping was used in order to best manage the torture of solitary confinement, all sense of time was lost.

She alternated between sleeping & exercising while in her cell, but her mind was still not stimulated enough most of the day… or night.

She was wide awake now, but did not alter her position. The less she moved, the bigger the room appeared to be. She tried thinking of ways to distract, or entertain herself. She didn't want to relive past memories, as if playing home movies in her head, as the current situation has a way of imprinting itself on a memory whenever said memory is recalled for perusal.

Her own brain took her by surprise when a song floated in from an unknown corner of her mind. It was the type that wouldn't be satisfied unless sung aloud. So, after some time of the same tune going round and around, like a goldfish in its bowl, it finally rose up her throat & sprouted through her lips, like a rose's blossom. And it was as sweet as one too. The tune lifted into the air & expanded into every nook & cranny of the small room, until all the space had been filled, after which it burst forth into the hall, almost drowning out the approaching footsteps.

The only time anyone even got near her door was to either feed and water her, or let her out temporarily at a set time every day, if she had "behaved". They never came if you called, cried, or screamed, no matter how loud, or for how long.

A skeleton-key jingled for a moment & then clanked within the lock, before creaking as it turned, signalling its opening mechanism. Next, the bolts around the doorframe were unfastened. Normally when this happened Chelsea would spring to her feet, not wanting to waste any of what precious time she was allotted outside her cell in a day, even though it was only 2 hours. During those 2 hours she was allowed to make personal phone calls & attend to hygiene needs. On those occasions the guard would usually tell her, through the door, to assume the conventional pose: facing the far wall, with her hands behind her back. But not this time.

The hard door swung open & the heavy boots stepped in. What could only be the prison guard, though Chelsea made no effort to confirm with even a passing glance, did not move from that spot. He had come in, no doubt, to bark at her for singing, & who knows what else. It was always something, even if it needed to be invented. But not this time. This time, there was nothing. Again Chelsea was taken aback by this remission in routine. Curiouser & curiouser. Her eyes tentatively peered out from under their lids in order to scrutinise her intruder, who appeared to be studying her in return.

He was of tall, solid stature & in his thirties. His facial composition was plain & not one to reveal much. His expression was like that of a man looking at a woman in the prone position. She didn't know him, but this was not unusual. There was a high-turnover rate among guards.

"Don't stop", his bassy timbre bellowed, without warning. The abrupt command gave her a start. She hadn't noticed that she had stopped singing. The tune had continued playing uninterrupted in her head regardless. She obeyed & resumed her tune from the point at which it was playing in her head. She watched his face as she did so. What it expressed was an incongruity with its surroundings, caused by her song, which was a sound, an expression of its own that too was discordant with its time & place.

The drudgery of patrolling, & with it, it's attitude of resolute solemnity was slowed to a halt, & in its place materialised an appreciation of her authentic beauty. He was mesmerised by her. Her eyes lowered to his pants, as if her stare could coax his rigidity out of its flaccid state. Almost unconsciously she began to slowly turn her lower half away from him, while arching her back, gradually lifting her arse. After it was fully distended, she began bucking her hips, just as slowly. First in, then out. In his eyes the subtle signs of arousal had transformed into a blazing fire of desire. Her own body began to respond to the light, rhythmic caresses of her garments against her intimate areas. She had to start taking sharper intakes of breath between notes. In has pants, his member was swelling, until it strained against the fabric that secured its length in place. It snaked along the front of the left side of his hip, hugging it.  
Spurred on by want, he approached her writhing body. She bit her lip. He licked his. Her song was transforming into a series of sighs and breathy moans. His bulge was very close to her arse. She could almost feel the heat emanating from it. He had stationed himself there, almost barely able to contain his yearning, yet he was not willing to advance further, lest his occupation was made forfeit. So that is where he remained. His heavy chest heaved. Her movements picked up in speed, testing him. His desire mounted, but physical contact did not follow.

This was the man Chelsea had been waiting for – one who desired her, yet had the self-control not to act on that desire, despite her invitations. Other guards, in the past, had either been one, or the other, but now she had found her perfectly balanced man. A man who had principles, strength, could stand for something, while wielding a burning passion.

Chelsea let out one last sigh, but this time one that signalled despondency. As if deflated, her bottom sunk back into its original position – motionless. Her wanton expression drained from her face, leaving a look of peaceful dejection in its place.

"Is something wrong?" the hormone-logged male inquired.

"I have no speech", Chelsea responded, being deliberately cryptic.

"You have a beautiful singing voice. I never knew."

Chelsea blushed "I don't share it with just anyone."

"I guess I'm lucky. It's enough to drive a red-blooded man insane."

"I'm glad you kept your composure, it means you can stay. And share in… well, what we shared together. But I warn you it may not be as easy next time" She winked at him.

"I don't know if that's a bane or a blessing."

"See it as a potentially fatal perk", she giggled, evilly.

"Man, you'll get a guy in trouble."

"Can you do me the tinniest of favours?"

"Let's hear it"

"Say my name"

"Your name?"

"Mmh."

"Chelsea."

Her name glided off his tongue, sending shivers down her spine. She relished the short, but sweet moment.

"Was that okay?"

Still reeling from the pacifying effect it had had on her, she responded: "Yes, thank you. I just wanted to feel human again, connected with myself again."

"Happy to oblige."

"Outside, the most visible trans-woman is Caitlyn Jenner. And I'm here. Invisible & muted. I have no online access, no journos can visit, & even if they could, I would be legally unable to talk, comment on, discuss, or even look at any of the material I helped leak."

"You should have left this country when you had the chance." He added, nonchalantly, as if it was a matter of fact. But she had never considered it before that moment. She had felt safe in her own country for some reason. Now she knew better. She was coming to a realisation. One of her original charges, for which her country threatened to kill her, was: 'aiding the enemy' – what enemy? It wasn't a war, it was a massacre, the victims having no way of defending themselves. The butchers were the enemy – the same that had locked her up. Only villains lock up heroes. If only she had left the country when she was still free, as the guard had suggested. Then she would be free to talk about everything to an unbiased press.

Chelsea decided that it was now, or never. "Could you help me get a message out?"

"No, I'm sorry, Chelsea."

His hormone levels were evening out again. He was sobering up. She would have to find that sweet spot again.

Coyly she asked: "Tell me your name?" No! No sooner had the words left her mouth, she had realised her mistake. She had made too many requests in too short amount of time.

"I'm sorry ma'am, that won't be possible."

_Ma'am? Oh no_, she thought. Her mistake was confirmed as one. The delicate spell she wove was in danger of breaking. His eyes shifted downwards. He was shaking his head & began shifting his weight away from her. She was losing him. Panicked, but with the need to act quickly she considered all her options. She had exhausted the sex-appeal option, since, if she had reintroduced that now, she would be viewed as inauthentic & manipulative. She could not make any movement that rose her from her position without rousing his defences even more than they already were. She finally decided to do what came naturally: turn her face away from him and begin sobbing.

"I'm really sorry, ma'am." He drummed on.

She could feel his discomfort go up a notch. He began a more conscious retreat, but before committing 100% to this action, she undermined his agency with: "Just go. Please just go" she sniffed.

Shortly afterwards she heard the door shut behind him. As he was locking it back up, she threw away her inhibitions, her composure & vaulted out of bed & sprinted to the door, after which she began imploring him, overwrought:

"Promise me just one thing: look me up. When you get home, look me up. Look up Julian Assange. Follow WikiLeaks on Twitter! Follow Edward Snowden! Follow Suzie Dawson! Follow Jen Robinson! That will give you all the info you need. Please at least recommend this job to friends you trust! Spread the word! Please!"

His bolting the door had been completed. He walked away without another word. Had he been listening? Only time would tell.


	3. Chapter 3

Carrying a Torch for a Mighty Woman

It was unusually clement that mid-April morning in London, & Jen Robinson – a human rights lawyer & long-standing member of the legal team defending Julian Assange & WikiLeaks – was readying herself for the day. She dressed as one would knowing that their every move made; their every word uttered, was being surveilled by a team of men, who were the equivalent of well-trained dogs, but she also did so as one that has grown accustomed to the thought of being the subject of said vigil, for as long as she had been, would do. Surveillance of anyone associated with WikiLeaks was well-known & in her case its likelihood was confirmed by an ex-NSA member, years ago.

Drinking her coffee downstairs in her flat's lounge, Jen basked in the morning light slanting in through her terrace doors. It was a glorious day, which she laid the blame on as the cause to the bombardment of mental images she was getting of her birthplace in Australia. She was playing back memories of her father training their horses on Seven Mile Beach with the sunrise on the horizon – one of the most spellbinding places she knew. The nostalgia associated with these reminiscences was an incontrovertible, early symptom of homesickness.

Then she thought of Julian Assange & how long it had been since he had been with loved ones in the country they both called home. He had been incarcerated at Belmarsh Prison for almost 2 weeks now without being allowed to receive visitors in all that time. She had successfully, after much difficulty arranged for 1 video conference with him so far. They likely only agreed to a video conference because the connection could always conveniently cut-out whenever they wanted it to.

Today she was planning something more ambitious: a meeting between Assange & someone very special to him, not for business, but pleasure.

Soon she was out of the evocative, golden light of the early morning & pushing her way through the extinction rebellion crowds, thronging the streets of London.

It was visiting hours at Belmarsh. Julian Assange was sitting in his visitation booth, waiting. He wasn't waiting for any visitors, as it was merely a charade they put him through, daily. For the entire 2 weeks he had spent there he had never been allowed a single visitor. And yet, every day since his arrest they marched him out to the booths, waited the hour allotted, in silence, only to collect him again & march him back to his cell. They had to keep up appearances, you know.

Today was no different. At least the booth was a change in scenery compared to his quarters. And it sure beat being interrogated by MI5, or MI6, 7 or 8, or however many other identical 3-letter agencies the United Corporations of America's little bitch known as the UK could throw at him.

Jen Robinson extricated herself from one media-neglected crowd of protestors only to be greeted by another: the Free-Assange protestors. The new crowd, on seeing her, cheered her on like she was a celebrity, or royalty, except one who actually made a positive impact on the world. She would have liked to have said a few words in the presence of the crowd, but she had an image of professionalism to maintain, as well as that, the dearth of appropriate channels that the media would have afforded were conspicuous by their absence. She merely turned to the crowd & waved & smiled shortly before entering Belmarsh.

Once inside Jen tirelessly negotiated with the commissioner of the London Metropolitan police & the prison governor trying to get them to grant access to a very special visitor. All over the phone, of course, neither of them made an in-person appearance, naming the protests & an uncompromising work schedule as their alibis.

The potential visitor in question was Sarah Harrison: WikiLeaks' editor, & Julian's closest advisor. Julian hadn't seen Sarah in years. After Sarah & Julian's relationship ended shortly after his detention in the Ecuadorian embassy, their physical encounters had grown more & more sporadic. Jen knew that Julian's mental & physical health had been much compromised by his mistreatment in the embassy, that the mainstream media had framed as the reverse. She wanted so badly to do this one thing for him. She wasn't just his lawyer, because it was the case of the century, but also because she genuinely cared about his cause – their cause. Julian's apposite aphorism: 'courage is contagious' resonated with her, as said contagion had been contracted by her long ago when she was still a student, researching Indonesia's politics & reading broadly on the subject of human rights in general. She knew it as a sting by an exotic insect called: the 'Free West Papua' campaign, spurring her on, in later years, to represent the leader of the campaign, the Papuan Nelson Mandela: Benny Wenda. When the Collateral Murder video was first obtained & decrypted by WikiLeaks, depicting United Corporation servicemen firing & then laughing at unarmed civilians & journalists, it had a profound effect of tsunami-like proportions on how the world viewed the massacre that the invasion of Iraq really was. It was no exaggeration to say that Jen was honoured to have Julian as her client.

She wanted to do her utmost, to not only save Julian's life, but to also soothe him on the painful journey to safety; his journey back home. That's why she had been so vigorously trying to coordinate this meeting between him & Sarah. Seeing a familiar face from times long passed – better times – would do him a world of good, she felt. Even at this late stage, she would not give up. She wanted this meeting to take place today.

She quoted his doctor (one of the only people he had been allowed to see) who also served as a PHR Torture Documentation Advisor, who had told her that the cumulative severity of the pain and suffering inflicted on Mr Assange (both physical and psychological) during his detention in the embassy without medical treatment for 7 years, was in violation of the 1984 Convention Against Torture.

Alas, her efforts were again, just as each time before, in vain. The authorities did not regard the meeting as strictly pleasure-based because of Sarah's close connection to WikiLeaks as a whole, or at least that was the cover story they opted for, for its feasibility.

It was so frustrating for Jen because she had been so close this time, but no one would listen. Anyone who was anyone was against her cause. No one around her could see reason. Cowardess had become an epidemic. If only they would understand that if we all stood up, united, against this obvious miscarriage of justice, it, & similar cases, could never take place. It was times like these where her admiration for Julian was fully realised. He had been engaged in this battle for almost a decade now, but he still persevered, standing strong against the most powerful opposition the world had ever seen. She had failed him, once more. However, she never accepted total failure, only compromise. She had succeeded in negotiating that she at least could meet her client, with a message from the barred guest. The meeting would be healing for her as well, as all she wanted right now was a nice, quiet moment with someone she cared about, who understood the situation she had to deal with.

The deliberate incompetence of the authorities had filibustered her out of most of the visiting time remaining to Julian, which she had learned from past experiences, could not be extended under any circumstances. The inflexibility of the system could only have been by design.

She hurried through the halls, a high-security guard accompanying her all the way, to the visiting booths.

Julian sat, slumped in his seat playing the waiting game. A game he had become quite the expert in, at this point, a fact which did nothing to minimise the dreariness that characterised said game.

The door that never opened, opened & Julian nearly jumped out of his skin on hearing the unfamiliar sound. In stepped Jen, as if from a dream. Julian's face lit up seeing his unexpected guest. On approach, she returned the glow, wearing her warm smile; the exchange like that of a beacon & the vessels that are guided by it.

"Jen!" a series of competing emotions flashed across Julian's face, comprising a mix of ambivalences, such as surprise & relief, yet wariness & foreboding, as well as perplexity, matching the competing potential reasons he could be receiving an impromptu visit by the best lawyer in the business – his lawyer: Jen Robinson.

Jen seated herself in the space reserved for those with the permission to be free, opposite him. She picked up the receiver on her side of the glass. Following her lead Julian picked up his. He waited with bated breath for what he presumed to be the inevitable.

"No news today, Julian, just a visit by a friend."

After allowing this information to set in, he let the tension he had knitted together in his upper body to gradually subside. He breathed again, relaxed, checked the clock hanging on the wall, then, just to confirm asked: "An informal visit?"

She nodded.

"That's very pleasant surprise, Jen. A nice change."

"Sorry I couldn't get here any earlier."

"Totally understandable. They take security very seriously here, Jen. The person who created a platform that allowed whistleblowers to remain anonymous while forcing an otherwise clandestine state to be transparent, unfortunately just so happens to be an egotistical, Russian rapist, who kicks puppies for fun."

"Julian, remember, powers to detect sarcasm are greatly compromised by officials. Self-inflicted of course."

"Of course."

She waited, only a moment for Julian's frustration to subside before continuing. "…Julian…" Her voice had softened in that knowing way usually reserved for intimate partners. "We haven't got much time."

They were alone, save a guard in the corner of Julian's side, who was out of Jen's view. Maintaining her professional aura, she discreetly pushed the two halves of her unbuttoned jacket aside, handsfree, using only her torso, with assistance by her elbows. To Julian's astonishment she was not wearing a bra. Her breasts hung free, her hard nipples visibly poking through the thin fabric of her white shirt.

"Tell me Julian…" a naughty smirk began to creep across her lips and with it a new intensity in her gaze "…when was the last time you saw… a woman?"

Before he had been put in prison he had been in a makeshift one for 7 years. During the majority of the later years he was stuck in the embassy he had not enjoyed any internet privileges & even when it was not cut-off he was monitored nonstop. He had had no privacy whatsoever. Jen was not only the centre of attention, she was the centre of his universe at this point. He drank her in.

Shedding what remained of her inhibitions, Jen leaned back in her chair, away from the table, so that more of her torso could be visible to her voyeur. She shut her eyes, not to close herself off from the world, but open herself up to the secret part of the world that was always watching her, who would play its part in her exhibition. She wasn't worried about any potential blackmail, since she would have to be in the public eye first for the release of her privacy to appeal en masse. She wasn't in the public eye, because the public eye was deliberately looking in the other direction.

Her tentative fingers slowly traced the space between her breasts, up & down. "Follow my hand, Julian. My hand is your hand." She rested her other hand on her belly, using it to pull the fabric of her shirt over her delicate bosom. Her other hand continued tracing, maintaining its speed. The hand resting on her belly slowly scrunched the material until she had a fist full of it. The sight of her navel being exposed took Julian's breath away. His heart was pounding in synch with hers. Her breathing was heavier now. Her body craved cathartic release from the growing frustration from the tease… She grabbed both of her breasts, kneading them, letting out a soft moan, her eyes closed, her head tilted back & the traces of a smile of satisfaction crept in, as a look of ecstasy took over her face. The temporary relief this action afforded did nothing to abate her growing need – quite the reverse, the urge to release returned with a vengeance. Her whole body began to writhe & squirm under her touch. She was running her hands up and down her torso – accelerating, escalating. Her desire mounting, she plunged her right hand between her legs, her thighs wrapping around it. A deep, muffled moan sang out from her sealed lips. Her left hand travelled down the same path her right had, stopping at the edge of her trousers, quickly unfastening them. Julian's nostrils filled with her humid scent, the vapour hanging heavy in the air.

Her hand slipped into her panties with ease. Her curious fingers explored her mound, then her lips, before one of them dipped into her creamy crevice. After retrieving it again, she doused her clit with her juices. She began gently circling her clit. Her finger continued its unrelenting rotation. Her movements were slow & steady, like a beat, her vocalisations responding to its regularity accordingly. The sweet music she was making was transforming into a crescendo, as her orgasm was fast approaching. Well into her plateau, her brow relaxed, the look of concentration dissipating, as she allowed her body to takeover. It continued like a well-oiled machine. The pressure was building, the edge was getting nearer. She was working it out slowly, but not holding back. Then she felt it – the point of no return. The few moments before release were painfully drawn out by her chosen pace. Feasting eyes held their breath.

"Yes! Julian!" Jen drawled, gasping at the final syllable, as the waves of her climax crashed down & washed over her. Her leaking pussy pulsated in orgasmic bliss. She rode the waves, panting along the way, as she came down from an amazing orgasm. She spread her hand over her pussy, as she sat there, catching her breath.

She returned to the waiting area, where Sarah Harrison had been stationed. Sarah stood up in preparation of Jen's reception, trying to read her expression to the query resting on her lips, which she spoke, once Jen closed enough of the space between them, arriving within hearing distance.

"How is he?"

All she got as a response was an embrace, which she welcomed heartily. It was all that needed to be communicated at that moment. Jen gave no thought to her bosoms, which where still unrestrained beneath her blouse. Feeling Sarah's closeness like never before was just what she needed at this time. It was the unique kind of physical intimacy one craves post-climax. She pressed into her as the pangs of post-climactic bliss electrified every fibre within her. This was a side of Jen that Sarah was unfamiliar with.

Deep down, on some level, we're all prisoners yearning to breathe free. We are all Julian Assange.


End file.
